


Refugee

by BMP



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: ATF, Bystander fic with celebrity guest cameos, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-07
Updated: 2010-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-12 12:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BMP/pseuds/BMP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-ATF and totally self-serving</p><p> </p><p>The companion piece is "Castaway", <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/195300">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refugee

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: These Characters do not belong to the author or me (but if it were our sandbox, we'd let YOU play in it. . .) That said, this story was written purely for self entertainment and no money is being made, has changed hands, or has been paid out for the contents therein. Blame G and V for mercilessly feeding my ego and obsessions.
> 
> ~Constructive Criticism will be grumpily--I mean gratefully accepted  
> ~Flames will be used to toast marshmallows

  
**Refugee**   


  


By BMP

 

Yelena Novitskaya prided herself on being a good judge of people.

Her grown children doubted her ability.

She told them that she could not have continued to keep up and run her small apartment building with its little collection of small but tidy apartments if she were not such a good judge of people.

Her children, and now their smart, educated spouses, all told her that times were changing. That she was maybe getting too old to live in that apartment all by herself, let alone be the landlady to four tenants. Her daughters told her she ought to give up her apartment building and her own double apartment, where she and her beloved Eugen lived and raised those four forgetful children, owning their own building and living the part of good, responsible parents and good, responsible landlords.

She told them that she had a good supply of trustworthy plumbers and electricians and all-around handymen in her address book. And that the rent she earned could go to pay them once in a while. And, if they had to know, when it got too hard for her to cook and bake for herself and clean her own home, then she would pay for a maid. She told them she would take the cost right out of their expected inheritances—just to see the look on Natalie's husband Steve's too-thin weasel face.

Yelena's children pleaded with her to understand that times have changed, that people aren't trustworthy like maybe they used to be. Yelena told them stiffly that young as they are, they know very little about the world, and that people are about exactly as trustworthy as they ever have been.

Sofia and James—with the soft hands that never worked a real day in their lives—urged her to be wary of strangers living above her. She told them that they weren't strangers.

There was that Ms. Foster, who was not naturally blond. She moved out of her drunk husband's home temporarily two years ago and found out she was better on her own. She didn't talk much but she worked hard.

There was Mr. Rene Something-French-She-Couldn't-Pronounce who was dreadfully homesick for a country that Yelena was sure never really existed. At least not the way he remembered it. Otherwise Mr. Rene would not have moved here. He sometimes played his violin late at night, and was always shyly surprised to discover that no one really minded.

There was Rita De La-Something-Spanish who sobbed exhaustedly at Yelena's little kitchen table at her wits end because baby Selena's colic seemed never to end and Rita had no one else to walk the floor with her at night. Nonsense, and of course you do, Yelena said in her don't-argue-with-me voice. Rita shyly confessed the violin next door sometimes helped.

Then there was Mr. Larabee. He moved in to the right hand unit on the second floor three months ago. Come to think of it, perhaps he was much of the reason for her children's consternation.

"He pays his rent in cash," Sofia complained in Yelena's kitchen. "Who pays their rent in cash?"

"Criminals and terrorists," James answered her grumpily.

"He pays on time. First of the month. Like clock at work." Yelena replied stodgily.

"People who don't want to attract attention pay in cash," James continued. "That's who."

 

***7777777***

 

"He never talks to anyone," Natalie complained Thursday night while washing up barely-used dishes in her too-big and too-shiny kitchen where not much of anything got cooked very often.

"He says please and thank you and excuse me," Yelena answered stiffly. "What else is there to say?"

Natalie turned to stare at her.

"Most people talk far too much," Yelena said sourly.

"You should have someone check into him," Steve said. "Find out where he comes from. Make sure he doesn't have a criminal record."

By way of agreement, Natalie shook a wooden spoon in her mother's direction. "You should listen to Steve," Natalie said.

"Not so many people these days mind their own business that we should be suspicious of the ones that do." Yelena muttered.

Natalie threw soapy hands toward the ceiling. "I dread the day I walk into the apartment and find your murdered body."

"Don't be so dramatic," Steve said.

Yelena pounced on the nearest wandering grandchild to signal the end of the conversation.

 

***7777777***

 

"You know that guy on the second floor works at the Fava's Do-it-Best?" Peter, informed her in wonderment, wiping his hands on a rag that he kept in his back pocket while he worked on the plumbing. Yelena was supervising.

Peter gave the pipe another twist. "Saw him behind the counter when I went to pick up the thread tape."

When Yelena did not answer, Peter peeked around the pipe at her. "Did you know that?"

She preferred Peter keep his mind on the pipes.

"Said so on his application," Yelena answered gruffly. "Don't see any reason to assume he was lying."

Peter let out an exasperated sigh and went back to twisting pipes.

He was a lot less exasperated later carrying out half a dozen still-warm sweet rolls in a re-used bag from a loaf of bread.

 

***7777777***

 

Carl brought her vegetables that were going bad in his refrigerator. She didn't know why he bothered to buy vegetables. He never ate them when he was little. Why would he think he would cook them and eat them now? Carl needed a wife. Someone with a little sense to help him get by.

"You know the guy walks to work?" Carl said excitedly perched backwards on a chair. A thwack from Yelena's knuckles made him yelp out a protesting "Ma!", but he turned himself and the chair around properly.

"Yeah," Carl continued, as if Yelena had actually answered him or asked some kind of question. That was Carl's habit. If no one picked up the conversation, he continued it like he was having it with himself. "Peter said he works down at the Do-it-Best. That's gotta be a couple miles walk."

Yelena gave her second oldest child's round mid-section an appraising look and a harrumph.

Carl turned bright red. "You know," he said, "Natalie's right. There's just no talking to you."

"You should eat the vegetables," Yelena told him. "Or stop buying them."

 

***7777777***

 

The last Saturday of the following month, Sofia and Natalie both dropped by. They nearly ran into him as they breezed through the door, chattering happily and not looking where they were going.

"Excuse me," Mr. Larabee said, barely making eye contact.

Behind him Rita followed with Selena and a stroller.

Sofia cooed over the chubby-cheeked infant.

He held the door, and Sofia swore she saw him flinch when Rita sweetly asked if he would help her carry the stroller down the front steps.

She and Natalie both shook their heads.

 

***7777777***

 

It was the day Peter got too curious that really brought all four of them and the two husbands into the kitchen.

"I was right," Sofia said over and over again. "I was right. I was right. My God I was right!"

"I'm calling the Denver PD to look into this guy," Steve said in his I-know-what-I'm-doing voice.

"Look into him?" Natalie argued with him nevertheless. "He doesn't need looking into! He needs to go."

She looked at Carl and Peter. "Go upstairs," she said.

"And what?" Peter interrupted her. "The dude's got a gun."

Yelena was certain she had never taught her children to talk like that.

"He's not home now, is he?" Sofia asked, looking at her sister.

Yelena shook her head. It was an expression of exasperation, not an answer. Unfortunately her children were too much a flock of silly cackling chickens to realize that.

"Good," Natalie said misunderstanding Yelena's head shake. She took the master keys off the ring by the door. "Steven, Carl, let's go upstairs and look."

"Look for what?" Carl asked, following after nevertheless. "Bombs? Unabomber manifestos?"

"Porn?" Peter snickered.

Sofia gave him a dirty look. "Be serious," she snapped and herded him out the door.

Rather than argue with them, Yelena let them troop bravely upstairs. Mr. Larabee was not at home anyway. So far as she could tell he worked every day from opening until closing, including every holiday and every weekend. The other workers must be happy to get the time off.

She dried her hands on a dishtowel and then followed after to make sure they didn't mess the apartment up.

She only had to stand in the middle of the living room to see her noisy brood. The kitchen area was the small end of the room where the rug ended, and the bedroom door was open. As a result, she could see pretty much all of the apartment at a glance.

Carl was leaning inside the refrigerator, clucking his tongue against his teeth. "A loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a six pack of beer. Jesus, this guy needs a woman."

He looked up to see his mother standing there and blushed bright red.

The counter held four cartons of cheap cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey. One chipped white, thrift store mug was in the sink along with a plastic knife.

"Are you sure he lives here?" Sofia asked, opening up cupboard after cupboard to find nothing but empty shelves. She picked up the mug. "He's got one mug and a thousand cigarettes."

Carl admired the label on the whiskey bottle. "But he's serious about his hooch."

"You know this is a no-smoking building," Steve said. "That right there's a violation of his lease and a reason to evict him."

"He smokes outside," Yelena said crossing her arms over her chest. "I never see it. And I never smell it."

"Yup," James called confirmation from the bedroom. "Just like you said, Pete. Gun oil and cleaning rags. There's a safe for the gun, too, but it's locked." Several moments and some rustling noises later, he added, "I don't see any other weapons or anything."

"No computer?" Sofia asked. "Check under the bed."

"Out," Yelena thundered finally. "He is my tenant. It is for me to decide to keep him or evict him."

"But Ma," Natalie protested sounding just like she did whenever Yelena refused to see the wisdom of her sound advice.

"But Ma nothing," Yelena said.

"He has a gun!" Natalie said in desperation.

"So does my friend Mrs. Wells from the Association of Women Entrepreneurs," Yelena said, ushering them single file out the door. "You think she's a terrorist?"

"That's different!" Sofia cried.

"How?" Yelena grunted back, closing and locking the door behind her.

"She's old!" Peter answered without thinking, and both Sofia and James smacked him on the back of his head.

By the time she reached the landing, Steve was dialing his phone.

"Enough!" Yelena thundered, grabbing it right out of his hand. "Mr. Larabee has a license for his weapon. Mr. Larabee works and nothing else. Where he comes from, where he goes to is all none of your business. You go home to your shiny cars and empty kitchens now. Shoo!"

She waved her skirt at them. They left in an uproar.

"We're only trying to protect you," Sofia sulked, as James tugged her toward the door. Yelena laid her hand on Sofia's soft cheek and stroked back a tendril of natural yellow hair.

"You protect me half to death," Yelena said. She silenced her daughter's protest with a kiss on the cheek.

Natalie was still fuming in the hallway.

Yelena squinted her eyes at her eldest daughter. "You think," she said thoughtfully, "your father and I make a life for four children out of this little building without that we know how to get things done? You think all these years I learned nothing about people?"

Natalie's lips turned down into a pout.

"I know from people," Yelena said sternly, but she let her eyes crinkle up into a smile, and Natalie's pout softened.

Still pouting, Natalie kissed her cheek.

"I'll come back to see you tomorrow," Natalie promised. Yelena wondered if it was a warning.

Mr. Larabee seemed to have scared her children into seeing her more often.

 

***7777777***

 

Sunday night there was a knock on her door.

Yelena opened it to see him standing there.

She smiled at him.

He smiled back. Thin at best and with eyes that were much too grim, but he tried.

He handed her a small stack of bills.

"The rent," she said with satisfaction. "On time as usual."

He turned to go, but she called his name, startling him. He turned around.

She handed him a take-out container and a fork. Halupsi—hamburger stuffed into rolls of cabbage leaves. Her specialty. It had been Eugen's favorite

"You eat," she chided him. "It's better than cigarettes. Or whiskey."

His eyes flashed fire for an instant, but then they crinkled up at the corners—just a little bit. She thought maybe one day when he learned to smile again that she'd like to see what kind of sparkle could come from green eyes and white teeth and dimples like that.

He did not know what to say, so he just said thank you.

She harrumphed after him.

Maybe one day, she thought, as she closed the door, that young man would learn to smile for real. Or not flinch every time he saw that young mother and her baby. Maybe one day he would not work himself so hard. One day he might even drag home a bag of groceries instead of cigarettes and whiskey. Maybe one day, he would decide he had hid long enough and was ready to face the world again. Maybe one day he might even dial up the phone and call someone, somewhere who was worried about him.

Rummaging in the kitchen drawer, Yelena spotted the business card again. It was given to her by a man who tried to sweet-talk her into letting him into the apartment upstairs. He didn't even try to pretend that it was official business. His mustache drooped when he told her it would be better not to tell Mr. Larabee he'd been there. She flipped the card over. He told her to call anytime "if she needed to". Then he'd underlined his name and the phone number three times: Denver Police Detective First Class Buck Wilmington.

Nettie Wells had not seemed surprised the following week when Yelena showed her the card over strong coffee at their A.W.E. meeting. With elegant strokes, Nettie put her name on the back of the card, too.

After that, that policeman Captain Bryson called again. He did that once in a while. She already had his name and number, but she added them to the back of Detective Wilmington's card, too, for convenience.

She didn't bother to tell her children any of that, though. They wouldn't understand it, and besides, it did them good to get their feathers ruffled. They were all much too smart. Yelena didn't see that pointing out how right their mother was would help them see it any clearer.

In the meantime, she had four tenants, and it kept her busy from dawn to dusk and often beyond being the nosey old woman who watched out for them.


End file.
